


Yosegi Zaiku

by nns_kanoe



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, Post-Break Up, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:15:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2655032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nns_kanoe/pseuds/nns_kanoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It'd been almost a decade since he'd first stepped into Shuutoku as a student; eager, energetic, and ready to take on that shooting guard from the GoM. When he'd returned with a completely different role, his life now dependent on coffee and red pens, Takao Kazunari hadn't been expecting to remember Midorima as little as he did.</p><p>After all, this was where he'd had the best years of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose you could say this is something of a birthday gift to my favorite HSK Takao, voiced by my favorite seiyuu. Enjoy :)

It had been a month.

Or was it two months, 6 weeks? Takao didn’t quite remember.

Though, he’d been unexpectedly grateful that the incident coincided with his first step into the workforce.

Perhaps mercifully, his school attachment hadn’t spared him much time for himself; every hour he spent employed as a trainee teacher seemed like hell’s mangled manifestation on earth. It seemed as if the workload was a living creature of evil; growing and evolving every time he managed to chip at the motherlode.

One such motherlode sitting in plain view on his desk, he settled into his seat for another lunchless lunch break.

Vengefully pulling the cap from his tool of the trade, a dime-store red pen, he remembered the snort Miyaji had given him when he’d confided his ambitions. After all, the blond senior was already several years into being a PhysEd teacher. In the clarity of hindsight, Takao realized with a sniff; the smug bastard had known, _well_ , what treachery lay ahead. Adopting a school as his workplace had forced Takao to realize certain things. Particularly, the fact that being a teacher was 90% the paperwork handled behind the scenes during break. Slowly, it occurred to him that what he remembered seeing of his own teachers in the classrooms, the largest impressions of their existence, was actually the smallest part of their jobs.

Laying his head on the desk to catch a breather, he groaned into the pile of folders parked on his desk. Those back muscles he’d pulled weeks ago weren’t getting any better, his keen vision was a thing of the past, his prided 6-pack was gone, he was going to have Carpal Tunnel tomorrow, and merciful Saints above he _needed_ a haircut.

Make no mistake, Takao Kazunari was quickly breaching his limit, even if Shuutoku was his alma mater.

Sometimes, walking through the gates of Shuutoku highschool in the mornings, it felt something close to surreal seeing students, _his_ students, greeting him while wearing the very same black gakuran and sailor uniforms he’d remembered wearing with his own classmates, not too many years ago.

His own classmates, Takao paused, desperately trying to seize that thought before it could run too far. Of all the 40 something students he’d spent his 3 years of highschool with, only one of them really stood out.

It had been a month, or was it two months, 6 weeks? Takao didn’t quite remember.

After all, with his work, days seemed to slip through his hands without him noticing. Perhaps by virtue of that, breaking up with Sh- Midorima, had been much more painless than he’d expected it to be.

All that initial dread from being posted to Shuutoku, curses on inopportune timing, and thoughts of how badly he’d be forced to remember the once-upon-a-time Shuutoku men’s basketball team ace. It’d been laughably anticlimactic how none of that ever did happen. He supposed the school had changed just enough to keep any unwanted reminiscence at bay. The classrooms were different, the courtyard was different, and by God, the gyms and locker rooms were gratifyingly different. With a snigger, he supposed that the old school really was on its last legs back then. Hadn’t it been renovated from the ground up some years back, he probably wouldn’t be here at all.

Shuutoku had returned to being a name, rather than a place. Something to look forward to rather than recall, not dissimilar to the vague ideals of highschool life he’d held when sitting for entrance exams. The old Shuutoku had disappeared, along with everything it held. Probably for the best, Takao had thought, considering himself lucky that everything he _couldn’t_ control was suspiciously cooperating in his avoidance of the other man. As if he’d received a decade-long payroll on luck.

To be sure, it had been a rough ride during the actual feat. He remembered sitting in a corner of his room clutching his hair, he remembered hearing deep and rapid breathing that he later realized was his own. He remembered panicking, crying, running laps around the neighborhood at 3am. He remembered calling Kise, calling Miyaji, calling Momoi, calling Midorima especially, along with barrages of texts; to none was there ever a response.

He’d counted. 9 rings. The click after 9 rings didn’t mean to start talking; it meant one more step into futility.

Steps, Takao forced away a sour laugh; he’d run a competitive sprint in that fashion. In that light, it really was no wonder that he hadn’t heard from Midorima since; he’d behaved like a bona fide stalker. In tranquil hindsight, Takao couldn’t help visibly cringing every single time he remembered how many hours he’d squandered, just pestering the poor guy.

He supposed those apologies and regrets would’ve been rather charming, if they were all there was to a breakup. Conceivably, however, they never were. Takao wasn’t shy to admit that he’d hated Midorima for awhile. _Hated_ Midorima for leaving him with the severed end of a line they’d held together so tightly, for so long. It’d absolutely bewildered him that the other man could’ve discarded, so easily, everything that he himself was still desperately grasping hold of. Why his value had suddenly been waived, revoked as effortlessly as if the past decade had been nothing more than a dramatic flash in the pan.

Though, once he’d pictured the guy in his room, staring at his computer impassively, trying not to be terrified of his phone, any resentment spirited itself away as gently as a wisp of smoke. That wistful image, of someone he’d once thought he’d stay supporting all his life, struck him harder than any ignored call, any misunderstanding, any futile night-long wait could ever have.

That, Takao thought, was probably the point that he’d stopped trying entirely. It took awhile for him to even notice he’d made a habit of avoiding possessive pronouns when referring to Midorima, much less use his name. It was always “him”, “the team ace”, or “the ex”, “that guy”, where ever he’d coincidentally looked. It might have occurred to him to check messages, chats, emails and the likes to see how long he’d been doing it.

Though, that check never did happen. Anything to do with Midorima suddenly just seemed like too much effort.

It was a week or so after D-day that Takao had taken a day's leave off work, finally. That day saw the first time since the panic-stricken night of phone calls that he’d contacted Kise, or anyone for that matter. In many ways, he was thankful that everyone else had their own plates full. Even if he _hadn’t_ told them he’d been posted to Shuutoku, well, they knew where to find him. He hadn’t been quite ready to handle anyone showing up at his apartment unannounced just yet.

He’d had a clear idea of what to do on that precious day off. First and foremost, a checkup at any clinic that wasn’t TMU Hospital. Knowing where the ex worked proved useful in ways he’d never considered before.

Medicine down the hatch, and enough Tokuhon patches on his back that it looked thoroughly comical, he’d settled down to the main event.

The physical things were the first to go. Midorima’s clothes in his closet, shoes, medical books, the coffeemaker, the _coffeemaker_ damnit, that plastic solar-powered potted plant on the windowsill, the manekineko at the genkan, a bamboo pencil holder, numerous CDs, a replica flintlock pistol he’d grown rather fond of… He’d laughed surveying the apartment after everything had been packed into boxes and mailed to Midorima’s parents’ home. It never did occur to him that _this_ much of his decor had been leftover lucky items.

Messages came next. Surprisingly or not, all in one go. Being a teacher had done something to the sentimental fool in him. Instead of lingering attachment, came a cringing sense of dread at how much time he’d need to spend finally spring-cleaning a multi-year-old chat log. A made-up mind later, several clicks on his phone had effortlessly culled an entire chat history; the very one he hadn’t once touched since getting this phone. The highschool phone he’d kept just for that purpose went unceremoniously into the unflammable trash.

Along with photos, saved dates, messages, and the purikura from that once he’d managed to drag Midorima into a photobooth. Child-like things they’d grown out of.

Riding on that thought, he’d deleted Midorima’s number as well.

Feeling decidedly accomplished from his catharsis, he sat down with an instant coffee and wondered. He’d not rarely questioned, especially while they’d still been an item, what it was that had kept him so desperately attached to the other man.

During highschool it’d always been so easy to answer the questions. Why Midorima, what do you see in Midorima, how do you even put up with Midorimacchi (for all his good points, Kise was an unparalleled busybody). Takao had heard it all, but the reasons he gave in all sincerity then, upon reflection, seemed excessive and synthetic. For lack of a better explanation, he supposed he’d said what he had simply because he’d really believed it back then.

But things changed. Things always change, Takao thought sardonically, setting down his instant coffee with a ‘blegh’, and mentally shuffling the next months’ expenses to accommodate a new coffeemaker.

Quite simply, all it took was expanding their scopes of responsibility. Not by much even, just enough for them to realize that, shock horror, there was more to life than basketball.

Between Midorima working around the clock at the hospital, and Takao’s own studies, their relationship in the past year or two had been on the rocks at best. They didn’t live together either, contrary to what their seniors, teammates, and most of their mutual friends had expected and assumed. There simply was no room for Midorima’s precious lucky items in Takao’s tiny apartment, and the distance between their Universities was a problem that neither of them had much of a financial alternative to. Midorima had stayed with his parents, Takao had stayed alone. Promises of regular visits were soon trumped by housemanship and endless deadlines.

Even anniversaries weren’t made into too big of a deal anymore, which seemed to suit Midorima just as well; he’d never been one for fanfare. Naturally, that didn’t stop Takao from trying, at first. While he was young and energetic, those efforts seemed a fair exchange for the rare and precious little gems of reactions from Midorima. Squint-or-miss smiles, quick kisses before parting, silently footed bills, Scorpio’s lucky item slipped into his pocket. In time, those little gems that Takao had once treasured and seeked began tarnishing like aging silver. The less time and energy Takao could afford to splurge on whims, lucky items and selfish requests, the more being with Midorima became an aching liability.

He supposed he ought to have seen some sort of chronic fault in their relationship, especially when he’d become envious of the _arguments_ with Aomine that Kise would often complain about. In contrast, Midorima never said much. It was one of the things Takao had noticed earliest, and also one of the things that never did change, each intervening year be witness. Nothing Takao did ever bothered Midorima, nothing Takao _didn’t_ do ever made him unhappy, he never had a rough day at work, he never had a fight with his parents, he was never bothered over any lost patient… Even though, looking at the age beginning to show in his tired eyes, it seemed as if all those things, and the weight of the world, were precariously balanced on Midorima’s back. With time, constantly coaxing the doctor for a response, one never to come, became too much of a chore. One Takao could no longer afford shouldering.

Thinking back, there were probably whole months where they would miss each other entirely, but still not make any particular effort to meet.

Thinking back, a lot of the time, it barely seemed like a relationship.

When Takao had calmed down enough from the initial shock to actually think about the incident at all, he’d began wondering why he’d panicked the way he did. Perhaps it was something to do with all the sunken cost he’d already invested into their union. The simple comfort of having something stable, unchanging, year after year. The best years of his life; he’d used to call them that, quite cavalierly.

At that moment, whenever he looked back, those so-called best years had been altered beyond repair. His mind had locked a blinker on his memories; looking back at that time he was almost able to picture a wholesome highschool and college life, his own journey into adulthood, entirely without Midorima in it.

Though, recalling in that fashion, there wasn’t much left in it at all.

Needless to say, people had been shocked. Kise and Momoi above all. Both, and several others, had made multiple attempts to contact him after he’d dropped of the face of the earth. After making an effort to disappear from his friends, he’d realized how easy it was to tell which ones really cared.

He remembered chuckling during the heated scolding he eventually got from the both of them.

Short of death-threats with trucks and pineapples, Miyaji had been concerned as well, in his own brusque way. As a result, going out drinking with his senior had suddenly become quite the common affair for Takao. Both of them were teachers after all, even if they _did_ teach different subjects in different schools, and even if Miyaji _was_ less of a gopher and more of the next potential head of department. Still, same job easily meant common topics, common topics made for good alcohol fodder, which in turn meant good drunken times.

Good drunken times meant distractions. And if Takao wasn't simply  _clamoring_  for distractions.

If he were to be honest, he’d been thinking of their senior a lot in the past few weeks. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but the night when Miyaji carried him home probably had something to do with it. As far as he could recall, nothing out of the norm happened; but that puke on his own shirt probably meant the journey hadn’t been as effortless as Miyaji waved it off as being. The plot only thickened when Miyaji, upon hearing Takao’s sheepish apology, went ahead planning their next bar-hopping escapade.

Ergo, it wasn’t without basis that Takao had entertained certain speculations. He wondered if Miyaji ever did catch on to his feelings back during highschool days, even though in his youthful ignorance he’d shoved those feelings away, quite dramatically even. Through the years, Takao did find himself not rarely plagued by a nagging feeling; that he owed their senior _some_ explanation for cutting off almost entirely once the blond had graduated. With the sudden influx of contact, that nagging feeling only grew.

He didn’t know how Miyaji had found out about the breakup. Nor had he a clue whether their senior was just nice enough to still care for his idiot junior at a time like this, or if he had other motives. Takao didn’t know, nor was it his privilege to care. The unexpected slide right back into their previous friendship had at first caught Takao unawares, but with time and circumstance, he’d learned to enjoy it.

Finally clearing the last paper he’d brought home with him, Takao packed up his marking, prepping for that pesky morning class the next day. Marking papers was a rather mechanical process, something Takao had never appreciated. It needed just enough concentration that made multi-tasking difficult, but not enough to swamp his consciousness the way he’d liked. It gave him time, a lot of time, to zone out, to think, about what inevitably came to mind. Quick glance at the clock revealed it was going to be another 4-hour night, the 8th or so in a row. With a shrug, he reassured himself he’d survived worse, and plodded off to his bedroom, ignoring the calendar on the wall.

Well, no decent grown man would’ve marked his own birthday on his calendar anyway.

The alarm sounded, jerking Takao out of a dream that vanished the moment he opened his eyes. He could only remember Miyaji’s face somewhere in it.

Takao had developed a simple way of knowing if he was late; if he woke up feeling he’d slept enough, he was in for it. Head habitually lifting up off his pillow, he mechanically dragged his person to the showers before the bedding could entice him with harmless, but equally pointless dreams of snappy blond seniors.

Homeroom gave him some time to get his materials in order before he rushed to the classroom. The day passed in a fashion similar to countless before it; a fashion in which lunch break would roll along before Takao had time to even peek at his phone.

Any other day he might have ignored the phone entirely, even as it sat face up within comfortable reach on his desk. But today, the screen seemed to be lighting up just that much more often than usual. When he’d read the first message of dozens and realized it was his birthday, it suddenly felt stupid that he’d wondered if some emergency had happened back at his parents’ home.

Kise of course had pounced on one of his weekends. Miyaji had an invitation to drinks and dinner that night, treating negotiable. Momoi was busy with her kids but promised home cooked food (“Don’t worry, I’ve gotten better!” she said). Naturally there were messages from Ootsubo, Kimura, some college pals from GakuDai. He smiled a little embarrassed at a message from Kasamatsu. Hell, even Kuroko had wished him well.

Scrolling through messages, marveling at the fruits of his social grace, the ache in his back started receding, his shoulders laxed, he sank into his seat with a chuckle, suddenly feeling a slight comforting pang of hunger in his stomach.

And then, among the names, there was an unidentified number.

_[Happy birthday, Takao.]_

He wondered why his face remained impassive. His arse was still half sliding off his chair, legs stretched out comfortably in front of him, shoulders still laxed, his back behaving. He wondered, had it really been that long?

It had been a month. Or was it two months, 6 weeks? Takao didn’t quite remember. As mechanically as his dime-store red pen swept over papers, his fingers danced across the keypad.

_[Thanks, Midorima!]_

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Takao had been seeing his senior for about 4 months at that point.

 

Under the repetitive grind and hassle of his teaching job, the days and weeks began melting into each other, he himself keeping time in semesters rather than months. Meetups with Miyaji were occasional and brief, consisting largely of dinner and drinks ("We're /not/ going dutch damnit", he'd snapped; Takao had chuckled). He enjoyed them immensely, as highlights in his otherwise routine life.

 

He wasn't sure why Miyaji was quite as careful as he seemed with the new relationship. It'd been several months after the split with Midorima, to which the blond had (much to Takao's chagrin) largely bore witness. But with a patience and caution that seemed so ill-fitting of their brash senior, Miyaji had helped Takao move into a new apartment, and adjust to his teaching job (tips on office politics had saved his skin, innumerable times). His 'new' life, perhaps call it, shared with a new person.

 

There was just something about this new rhythm, though. Something about being the one to depend on another, instead of being an instigator; the default enabler, supporter and provider. It never did quite occur to him just how much he'd come to rely on Midorima for a sense of purpose. With a laugh, he’d began to realize that ‘giving’ had become a reassurance. Proof that he was contributing, useful, indispensi-

 

Or, well, perhaps not.

 

Even then, there was still something about being considerably intimate with a person who had been there all along, witnessed everything, knew of every scar he bore from the decade or so prior, as hard as Takao might try to cover them up. There was something about the looks Miyaji would give him, the intentional avoidance of certain topics, the coverups to stave off high-school reunions.

 

There was just something in those things that collectively stabbed at him even harder. As if his seniors’ acts of careful consideration were convincing him that he wasn’t quite over it himself.

 

He'd laughed it off for the most part; until that is, Miyaji had cornered him one night during a movie on the couch.

 

"If you have something to say, spill it." He'd almost whispered, eyes still transfixed to the Plasma.

 

Takao had wondered why he didn't feel the blond creeping up on him with the interrogation, too languidly snuggled in the solid support of Miyaji's arm. "It's just stress, senpai." He'd laughed. "Yama-sen isn't getting off my ass for the whole parents' notice thing I drafted for him."

 

There was a silence, Takao only then noticing this must've been why Miyaji's arm never did quite feel as relaxed as he himself had been getting.

 

A sigh, as Takao prepared himself for the worst. "I was thinking of going on a trip," the blond started, leaning over to cradle Takao's head in the crook of his neck. "Golden Week's coming up isn't it."

 

"GW isn't GW for teachers, senpai." Takao laughed, remembering well his disillusionment from the previous year. He anticipated the resulting conk on the head, letting out a feint whine to satisfy his tormentor.

 

"I know that, idiot." Came the brusque reply, following which Miyaji's arm curled around him again. "But we at least have the Sunday before school opens again right? Just for one day or something, doesn't even have to be outta Tokyo."

 

Takao relished the idea. For one, attention to the dreaded topic had been successfully diverted. For two, even just a day out for a change of pace, to him at that point, sounded too good to be true. An escape, perhaps, from the things that would inevitably come to mind otherwise; granted, him working in their alma mater didn't exactly help. He thought about possible locations for a moment, locations that hadn't already been tied to memories of a tall doctor with glasses, and taping on his left hand. Laughably few came to mind, but hell, Japan was a big place.

 

"How 'bout somewhere in Hokkaido. Flights are cheap."

 

He felt his hair roughly tousled, Miyaji picking up the remote control and rewinding their movie. "Hokkaido then."

 

In his anticipation of the trip, the days began to drag. Accusations from family about not visiting over a precious holiday could be dealt with after the ordeal. He'd whistled and walked away when the blond had asked him what the hell a backpack was already doing by the door at the beginning of the week-long national holiday. Naturally, the flight tickets had long since been booked. Though, Miyaji had laughed just a touch embarrassedly (but fuck if he'd admit it) as he'd cancelled his own online booking, when Takao received his set of tickets in the mail.

 

"We're  _not_  going dutch damnit." Takao just couldn't resist the tease, as much as it promised hell.

 

The day finally came, Takao suddenly appreciating his regular sleep dose of 3-4 hours; waking up at 5am for a trip had never been easier. He'd joked about the train to the airport taking longer than the flight itself; his senior had chided him for being silly, but snickered along all the same. The emptiness of an early morning train was taken sufficient advantage of; though, he didn't quite know who made the first move to reach for the others' hand. The flight likewise passed with little fanfare, Takao sagely holding back the urge to chortle at the idol group luggage tag his senior /still/ refused to stop using.

 

Somehow, when they'd stepped off the plane, Takao couldn't help feeling a sort of relaxation that simply wasn't possible in Tokyo. It wasn't from the area being substantially less high-tensioned or fast-paced either. It was an escape, perhaps, however temporary. The simple knowledge that his life wasn't rooted there. All the nitty gritty that reminded him of his obligations were tucked safely away; hundreds of miles away. In the chaos of the airport, an entirely unfamiliar locale, he felt so occupied finding himself again, that it was only too easy to forget who he used to be.

 

And the shadows that used to enclose him.

 

One such matter occupying his attention, at that moment, was quickly locating someplace to answer nature's call. "I'll be right back, stay right there!" He'd shouted to his senior after setting his bag down, disappearing into a quickly brewing crowd.

 

Storm grey eyes zipping across the ceiling for signs, he located that which he needed, half expecting Miyaji to time him and issue some form of punishment for every second he took exceeding 5 minutes. That stint in mind, he made his way back, though stopping once the blond's (clearly visible) hair came into view over the general population.

 

Close by was another head well above the crowd, slightly more so even. It was a shade of emerald green that Takao only then recalled being familiar with.

 

Instinctively, he zipped behind an information board, deeply regretting leaving his bag behind. A squick of panic hit him when he caught a wisp of speech, realizing then that he was close enough to hear their voices.

 

There was a pause after he caught something illegible, in a voice he hadn't heard for awhile.

 

"Yeah. I am. What of it?"

 

Another pause, after a voice that Takao clearly recognized as his boyfriend's.

 

"Is he well."

 

"He's fine."

 

"I see."

 

Only then, did Takao remember that silly verbal tick. He subsequently wondered how long he'd locked that memory away for.

 

"If you've said what you needed to, I'd suggest you be on your way." Takao couldn't help a slight chuckle at that; dealing with angry parents had mellowed the blond out considerably. Had it been the Miyaji from highschool, security would probably be around to pry him off the other half of their conversation, and confiscate his pineapples by now.

 

Another pause, following which the emerald green head of hair disappeared into the crowd for a brief moment; Takao heard the clack of a luggage handle being extended. "Was nice meeting you."

 

"Pleasure's mine."

 

Eyes squeezed shut, Takao opened them again when the rattle of luggage wheels soon began, alarmingly advancing in his direction.

 

His mind seized. All the man found himself capable of, was pressing his back to the information board, holding his breath. The sound of luggage wheels passed him by, never stopping, and all too soon the precarious few split seconds were over.

 

Leaving Takao with the distancing back view of someone he'd never expected to see again in his life, much less here. It was an immense luggage case, though Takao knew it wasn't full. Midorima had always brought large luggage for ease of handling due to his height. Even then he still had to lower his left shoulder visibly; as he was right then. On his shoulders was a cardigan Takao remembered keeping in his closet once upon a time. It was one of the nicer ones that he wore rarely; his parents had gotten it for him for no particular reason. Takao had worn it himself once before too; it reached about midway to his knees.

 

He wondered, had he really gotten that good at forgetting about Midorima, or just at hiding how much he’d really missed him?

 

The tall doctor disappeared behind a corner rather than into the crowd; with that height, it was no wonder really.

 

And with him, went those memories. As suddenly as they'd come.

 

A deep breath was all it took for the color to return to Takao's face. Having taken a moment to compose himself, he left the safety of the information board.

 

"Sorry! Got a little lost." He laughed sheepishly, Miyaji shrugging it off, the air stilling around them.

 

Takao knew, for just a second or two, the silence from Miyaji had been a hopeful one. One that wished Takao would pick up on his uncharacteristic stiffness, a scowl that was slightly deeper than usual, and the delay in response that Takao wasn't supposed to know had a perfectly logical explanation.

 

Perhaps selfishly, perhaps mercifully; he chose instead to fix a curious stare on his senior's face, guileless.

 

Silently appreciating a face he'd come to be more familiar with, compared to someone he'd been seeing for a decade.

 

"Senpai?"

 

Miyaji reached for his backpack. "It's nothing. C'mon let's go, we didn't get up early to waste time around here." With that he started up; in, Takao noted, the opposite direction Midorima had taken to leave.

 

He hoped Miyaji didn't see him glance in said direction, before taking off after his partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A.N.: I am SO sorry. This had been uploaded long ago but ended up as a draft sitting on my dash unpublished for close to a year! Humble apologies, and hope you enjoy this very much unintentionally belated chapter!))

**Author's Note:**

> Oneshot, there will be no continuation/sequel.
> 
> *Edit: Apparently I lied. Because life goes on.
> 
> Yosegi zaiku: Japanese mosaic woodwork with thin rods of different colored/shaped woods glued tightly together. The glued block is then shaved into slices, producing thin sheets with the intricate geometrical designs. Most commonly found on Yosegi puzzle boxes.


End file.
